


But For What Without a Heart?

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Religious Content, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-03
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 02:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/450111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without anywhere else to turn, Francis Bonnefoy seeks solace in the only place he can; his church. But he finds more there than he bargained for. Peace, grieving, even perhaps, eventually, healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadow_of_egypt (Shachaai)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/gifts).



> **Trigger Warnings:** Religious themes, suicidal thoughts and actions, other self-destructive actions, massive tissue warnings, and Gilbert as a priest.
> 
> Written for a prompt at the What_the_FrUK Valentines Aftermath-athon. _Francis, searching for some kind of sign from God, somehow ends up falling a little in love with a statue of a strangely expressive angel in church._
> 
> I meant to wait until I had the whole thing written before I posted any, but, well. It's been _months_ , and even though I have the rest of it plotted the actual writing seems to be escaping me, so I wanted to go ahead and throw the first part up. I promise it will be done soon! Probably!
> 
> The title comes from the song _Requiem_ , by Orden Ogan, which has _heavily_ influenced the writing of this fic. Go look it up, it's beautiful.

This isn't a story of magic.

This isn't a fairy tale, or a story of mysticism or miracle. This isn't Supernatural. This isn't about a profound wonder, an angel descending from on high with wings spread and arms open. There won't be any world-shattering revelations. 

This is a story of subtlety, a story of how small things, things so small you never even notice, can have the most profound impact. This is the story of one little church, exactly like any hundreds of others. This is a story about being in the right place, at the right time, with a gentle touch at exactly the moment when it was needed most. 

This is a love story, a love that was never even noticed. 

Or, indeed, might never have existed at all. 

~*~ 

Francis Bonnefoy was lost. 

Not physically lost. He knew where he was physically; at the corner of Larkspur and Main, at the Holy Mother Church where he'd been every Sunday for the last seven or so years, in the main sanctuary kneeling at the front-most pew. 

But today was Thursday, late Thursday in fact, with the sunlight slanting through the stained glass and splashing the pristine wood floors with warm reds and bright greens. 

Francis wasn't looking at the floor, or the beautiful old windows themselves, or even up at the altar. His arms were folded on the back of the pew in front of him, face hidden against his arms and shoulders slumped in exhaustion and grief. 

Perhaps if he knelt here long enough, the coloured light would soak into his skin and dissolve the pain and the ice that was clutching at his ribs. 

In the silence of the church, he heard the footsteps approaching, but couldn't muster the strength to raise his head. "You're still here?" the priest asked, laying a warm hand on Francis' shoulder. "Fran-" 

"I can't," Francis said, faintly surprised by the sound of his own voice. He sounded weary, voice rough and worn even to his own ears. He finally stirred, lifting his head. "Father, I can't go home. There's too much of her there." 

Father Gilbert Beilschmidt couldn't help the slight twitch; he was still fairly young, newly confirmed, still getting used to being called 'Father', especially by one of his oldest friends. But the twitch was overridden by concern. "Francis, when was the last time you ate?" His heart ached for his friend, and he wondered a little cynically if that was priestly compassion or because he knew Francis personally, knew first-hand why he was seeking sanctuary from a broken heart. 

"I..." Francis faltered slightly. "I'm not sure." 

"Feliciano's slipping, then," Gilbert's attempt at humour didn't work, but he hadn't really expected it to. His brow furrowed in worry, and he gave Francis' shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Francis, you need to eat. Jeanne wouldn't want you to-" Francis flinched under his hand at the sound of his fiancee's name, and Gilbert bit back the rest of what he was going to say. "...Antonio and the choir will be here soon to practice," he said instead, and Francis finally stirred a bit. 

"I don't-" 

"It's okay, he'll understand," Antonio meant well, but he had a tendency to go on and on about how bright and beautiful Jeanne had been, how much she had loved Francis, and right now that wouldn't help. In fact, Gilbert was beginning to get very worried that Francis was going to try something drastic. If he wanted to stay in the church where Gilbert could keep an eye on him, Gilbert wasn't going to argue. He nudged Francis' shoulder gently. "Come on, come into one of the side chapels. You can continue your prayer in peace, and I'll bring you something to eat." 

Francis nodded and climbed to his feet, looking weary and nearly _haggard_. Gilbert frowned in concern, taking firm hold of Francis' arm and steering him toward the east wall of the sanctuary. This wasn't a terribly large church, the two side chapels weren't much more than prayer rooms with space for a couple pews. But they had doors that closed, and would give Francis the privacy he wanted right now. 

Francis seemed to come back to himself a little bit as he entered the smaller room, raising his head to look around. He blinked at what he found. 

It was a relatively plain room, with comfortable padded pews, a few paintings on the walls and a small altar at the front. In the corner off to one side was a statue. Gilbert couldn't remember ever seeing it before, but then again he hadn't been in here often since he took over this church. Volunteers from the congregation did the cleaning, and this side chapel wasn't used all that much. 

It was a statue of an angel. Only about 40cm tall and made of what looked like white marble, it was raised to eye level by a wooden pedestal. The more Gilbert looked at it, the stranger it seemed. 

It _looked_ like it should be a cherub statue, but rather than a chubby baby, it looked more like an adolescent boy. It - he - wore a short tunic clasped over one shoulder and gathered at the waist, soft folds of cloth and knobby knees exquisitely carved. His hands were clasped in front of his chest, so delicately carved that even his fingernails were evident, every minute feather on his half-spread wings. His head was raised, and up on the pedestal as he was, he seemed to be looking Francis and Gilbert right in the face. 

His face, while just as delicately carved, was just about the most un-angelic thing Gilbert had ever seen. If you looked at each feature individually, they didn't seem to be anything remarkable. The nose was small and slightly up-turned, the mouth thin, not exactly smiling and not exactly frowning. The eyes were large and deceptively expressive, the eyebrows even more so. His hair was equally un-angelic, scruffy and ruffled rather than the smooth, easily carved hair-dos of the statues Gilbert was used to. 

But when you stepped back, looked at the statue's face as a whole, he looked almost wary, as though he was eying Francis and Gilbert in mistrust. Gilbert had the uneasy feeling he was looking at a living thing made into stone, rather than stone carved into the form of a living thing. Being a priest was all about peace and serenity, but that thing was creepy as hell. 

Tearing his eyes away from the statue, Gilbert patted Francis on the shoulder again, steered him toward one of the pews. "I'll be back in a little while with some dinner, Fran." 

Francis just nodded, sinking down to kneel, and Gilbert slipped out, closing the door softly behind him. 

For the longest time Francis knelt in silence, the faint sounds of the choir practicing drifting through the small room. He tried to pray - for peace, for solace, for his heart to stop - but he couldn't seem to focus. Every time he tried to form words, his thoughts drifted away from him, dissolving into static. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really slept (except that he could; it was the night before the accident, with soft curves nestled against his side and a blond head resting against his shoulder, smelling of softly fragrant apple shampoo), and that probably had something to do with it. 

Now that Gilbert wasn't present to serve as a distraction, Francis could feel the despair rising up again, threatening to engulf him and swallow him whole. He squeezed his eyes shut, and rather than his rosary he ran the fingers of his right hand over the ring on his left. Just a simple silver band, but it represented so much. So much lost. 

In desperation, he opened his mouth to speak aloud, thinking that might help him concentrate on his prayers, or at least be able to get through them. His voice cracked and broke, wavered and threatened tears, but at least there was no one to hear if his breath shuddered like an old man's. 

"Yahvé est mon berger, rien ne me manque." _The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want._

Except that he did want, and that was the problem. He wanted to be able to close his eyes without the image of her battered body hovering in his sight. It was her hair that stayed with him; her short bouncy blond curls weighted down in dried blood. He wanted to be able to sleep without dreaming that she was calling to him, in pain, and he was too far away to help. He wanted to stop crying. 

He wanted Jeanne to not be dead. 

His voice broke halfway through the fourth verse, and he couldn't muster the strength to continue. He pressed his hand over his mouth, cold ring against colder lips, and tried to muffle a sob. He raised his eyes, but rather than looking to the ceiling as he'd meant to, his gaze caught on the carved angel in the corner. It seemed like it was looking right at him, and Francis couldn't stop the hoarse, hysterical giggle that bubbled up in his throat. 

"What are you looking at?" he asked the statue, his words echoing back at him from the silent walls. "What do you see? Clearly a man who has lost his mind, since I'm talking to a statue." He laughed again, hoarse and hurting, and let his head thunk down to rest on his arm. "A broken man. I'm nothing without her..." 

The angel continued to stare at him, impassive, and out in the sanctuary the choir continued to sing. 

It doesn't get any easier. Four days later he did the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life and returned to their - his - bakery. Stepping inside caused him almost physical pain, because nothing had changed. Madeline had assured him gently that she and Feliciano could take care of everything, and sure enough the display cases were fully stocked and the shop was full of the smell of bread being baked in the large ovens in the kitchen. 

Francis stopped just inside the doorway, almost swaying on his feet. He put out a hand, rested it against the cool class of the counter. Feliciano popped his head out of the kitchen, his expression turning pinched when he saw Francis, and he ducked out of sight again without a word. 

Francis was grateful. He felt like someone was squeezing his throat, and he wouldn't have been able to speak anyway. This bakery, this place was _their_ place, it was where they had first met (cheerful chiming from the bell over the door, leaves blown in around his feet on the cold autumn wind and Jeanne, apron and curls and smile that warmed him so much he'd forgotten his scarf on the counter, and hadn't at all minded the excuse to come back). So much of their time had been spent here, together, after they'd decided to purchase it from Jeanne's uncle. Painting, laying tile, working out weights and measures and frostings and glazes, arguing back and forth in French until Feliciano was driven to wailing at them in Italian to _speak English, per favore_. 

Francis couldn't bring himself to go back into the kitchen. His feet seemed glued to the floor, he couldn't make himself circle around to step behind the counter. It made his heart ache just being here, he couldn't stand to go back there and remember dropping to one knee in front of the ovens, remember how Jeanne had had flour hand prints on her pants and a streak of honey glaze across her cheek, remember how radiant her smile had been. 

The bakery was everything warm Francis had ever had in his life, and suddenly it was too much. It was stifling, heating him to breaking, as if he had anymore breaking to do. He stifled a sob, and Madeline popped out from where she'd undoubtedly been listening at the kitchen door, her eyes wide and concerned behind her glasses. "Francis-" 

He shook his head sharply, shoulders shaking, and she came around the counter to cup his face in her soft hands. Francis gave in to her, collapsed into her, let his head rest on her shoulder as she wrapped surprisingly strong arms around his shoulders and held on. 

He'd known Madeline since they were children. She was his cousin, actually, only three years younger, and they'd always been very close. As children they'd gossiped together about their classmates; as they grew older Francis was the one Madeline called at two in the morning when she couldn't sleep, and Madeline knew Francis was in love with Jeanne almost before he knew himself. 

Her sweater was soft against his cheek, and she smelled like cinnamon and powdered sugar. Francis curled into her, but when he caught himself imagining it was someone else's arms around his shoulders, he wrenched back away from his cousin, eyes wide. He swallowed hard, stomach turning over as he realized just how heavily Jeanne would always haunt this place, for him. 

Madeline must have seen something of how he felt in his face, because her own expression crumpled in sympathy. She reached out to touch his arm, but Francis pulled away, stepped back toward the door, clenched his hands to stop their shaking. "Madeline, I'm sorry." 

She shook her head, smiled at him sadly. "Let me close up, we'll go get dinner-" 

Francis cut her off with another shake of his head, a rattling sigh. "I- no, no it's alright. I am going back to church." 

He fled, and the jingling of the door chime behind him covered Madeline's reply. 

He slipped back into the empty church without attracting Gilbert's attention; either he was out on other business or he was in one of the back rooms with his headphones on, blasting less-than-holy AC/DC. Lacking anywhere else to go, Francis wandered back into the side chapel, dropped heavily onto one of the pews and fought the urge to curl up into a ball of pathetic misery. 

It took him a few minutes to realize that in his haze, he was staring at the angel. He imagined it looked rather annoyed at him, and he fought back a despairing laugh. "I went to the bakery," he told it, because why the hell not? At least speaking to a statue, it wouldn't tell him that everything would be fine when it so clearly wasn't. Francis was starting to get sick to death of sympathy, no matter how well meaning. 

He blinked, realizing he'd said the last few sentences aloud, and wondered if perhaps Gilbert was right about eating and sleeping. "I just," he told the angel rather helplessly, pretending its annoyed expression was softening just for him. He definitely needed more sleep. "I want everything to go back to the way it was. I feel like I'm about to come unraveled, but I can't even go back to work because she's there. She's everywhere." He tipped his head back against the back of the pew, eyes squeezing closed to try and hold back the tears that threatened to slip out. 

"Everywhere but here." 

The angel was silent, of course, but Francis realized his words were true. Even the main sanctuary made Francis' gut twist in grief, remembering wedding plans and funeral alike. But as far as Francis knew, Jeanne had never been in this room. He clung to that thought, feeling relieved and guilty all at once. He didn't want to move on. He wasn't ready to move on. But he was exhausted and strung out and perhaps it wasn't so bad, just to curl up for a few minutes and not remember what it felt like to have her fingers in his hair. 

He woke much later, with a blanket draped over him, and he swore that the angel now wore a soft smile. 

~*~

At his lowest point, Francis considered suicide. 

Not consciously, not really, but twenty-seven days after Jeanne's funeral he found himself standing in the kitchen of their apartment. He was leaning over the sink with a fillet knife in one hand and blood already trickling down his other arm to drip down the drain. 

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten there, and that scared him badly enough he dropped the knife. The loud clatter shocked him into jerking back from the sink, dripping blood onto the spotless tile. Luckily the cut wasn't bad, and he was able to stop the bleeding with a tightly wrapped length of gauze. 

Then he left the apartment, not entirely trusting himself not to go for the knife again if he stayed. 

When he stepped outside, the night air was crisp and cold, biting at his ears and nose. He paused in surprise, hovering in the doorway as he stared up at the cloudy sky. Autumn had started her slow slide into winter without his notice; every time he breathed out, his breath fogged the air around him. He should go back upstairs and at least get his scarf, but even as the thought occurred to him he was already walking. 

He wandered aimlessly, twisting and tangling himself up in the nighttime city until he only had the vaguest idea of where he was. His arm ached, throbbing in the bitter cold, and the clouds around him wavered as his breath hitched, despair pulling at his ankles and wrists. If he'd been at home, in Paris, he might have been in danger of throwing himself into the Seine like a proper tragic lover. But there were no rivers here, only a shabby little park with a pond not much bigger than a puddle, creaky playground equipment and weeds around the edges. 

Francis sank down onto one of the swings, curling his fingers around the icy iron chains and tipping his head back to stare at the sky. There was a break in the clouds just big enough to see a patch of inky sky and a smattering of stars. 

He found himself thinking about guardian angels, and whether or not they really existed. Perhaps an angel had snapped its fingers in front of his eyes in the kitchen earlier, keeping him from slicing his wrist deeper or more severely. Or, more likely, it had just smacked him over the back of the head. He could picture that in surprising detail, but for some reason when he imagined his guardian, it did not look like Jeanne. Blond, yes, but in fact it bore a striking resemblance to the angel statue at the church, right down to the knobby knees and magnificently overbearing eyebrows. 

Though it was a mystery to him why any angel would bother to save his life. 

He didn't know it then, sitting on a park swing with the temperature dropping and the stars glittering overhead, but that was his lowest point, his longest night. He still had an exhausting journey ahead, and it would be the hardest few months of his life, but from that night on it was slowly, slightly uphill.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, he probably should have gotten stitches after all. The wound was slow to heal, and Francis was glad of winter as an excuse to wear long sleeves to hide the bandages. He was quite ashamed of his momentary lapse of sense and sanity, and didn't want to talk about it with anyone, not even Gilbert.

It was more awkward than he'd thought it would be, having his best friend as his priest. They'd known each other so long, Gilbert had watched his confessions over the years go slowly from _'Forgive me, last night I slipped a fiver into the G-string of a well-oiled young man on a pole'_ (his name was Matthew, and hadn't _that_ been a night worth confessing!) to _'Forgive me, the oven broke and I swore at it'_. 

Since Jeanne, Francis had found it hard to talk to anyone, about anything. He absolutely could not confess a suicide attempt. Not to Gilbert, not to anyone. He knew his friends were worried about him, and if anything, this proved them justified, but he couldn't bear the fuss they would make. Too much attention, too much well-meaning chaos. He'd crack for sure under the weight of all their eyes watching him even more than they already were. 

So instead of confession, he went to his angel. 

He knelt for a long time in silence, and if anyone had asked him, he would have sworn the angel looked disapproving. It really was a masterful work, the way its expression seemed to change. The way the light hit it, cast shadows off the smooth curves of its face, the way the lips and eyebrows were tilted made it seem as though the angel could be holding any expression. And its eyes followed you, though somehow Francis found its gaze comforting, rather than creepy. Perhaps it was watching out for him after all. Whoever had carved this statue had done his life's most beautiful work. 

Finally, Francis pushes his sleeve up, baring the bandages before the statue. 

"Three nights ago," even to his own ears his voice sounded small and hollow, grief and guilt twisting into his stomach like iron meat hooks, cold and vile. "I picked up a knife, and I..." he faltered and his voice died, and he could _feel_ the weight of the angel's gaze on the top of his head, waiting. Not judging, not really, but- 

Kneeling there with his head bowed, staring at the faint patterns of red decorating the gauze on his arm, Francis was gripped with a sudden and irrational anger. It was a _statue_. A beautiful one yes, but nothing more than a chunk of stone. It had no intelligence, no ability to offer condolence or condemnation. Francis was just projecting his own desperate wish for someone to confide in with no strings attached; it was an inanimate object and nothing more. 

Setting his jaw stubbornly, Francis raised his head, shaking off his feelings of revere so he could look at the statue critically- 

The angel was smiling. 

~*~

It was late in the evening, and the choir was practicing when Francis slipped into the warmth of the church. For a few minutes he stood in the back, letting the music wash over him, soothe the ache a little, for awhile. It had been a long time since he'd allowed himself to just... listen, and appreciate, and it felt good to stand silent in one place and breathe in the swelling notes of the hymns. But as the song drew to a close Francis shook himself and walked around the edge of the sanctuary, leaving the choir behind as he slipped into the angel's chapel. 

He already had the door closed behind him before he realized that he was not alone. He was so surprised that for a long moment all he could do was stand with his mouth open, staring dumbly at the girl kneeling at the front pew. She looked a little younger than him, perhaps about Madeline's age. She had rich golden hair held out of her eyes by a red headband, and big green eyes with long lashes. Francis felt his breath catch a little, ribs tightening around his heart - not because she looked like Jeanne, because she actually didn't. But rather because she was the first attractive woman he'd really been around since her death (except for Madeline, and that didn't even come close to counting). 

The young woman blinked back at him, and Francis' eyes were drawn without his permission to the way her slender fingers rubbed gracefully over the beads of her rosary. He swallowed; his mouth was suddenly dry and his tongue felt thick, a combination of finding this young woman's hands attractive and the memory of finding Jeanne's hands attractive, mixing in his mind and muddying what was real. This girl's nails were painted a dark red, though, and Jeanne's never were; she said it wasn't worth it when she spent so much of her time kneading dough and covering herself in glaze and frosting. 

Francis was jolted back to reality when the young woman started to get up, and his upbringing kicked in without consulting his still-frozen mind. "Non, it's alright, I didn't mean to disturb you-" 

She shook her head, curls bouncing against her neck as she offered him a bright smile. "It's fine, I'm just waiting for the choir to finish up anyway, my boyfriend and I are going for dinner afterward." 

That set off dim bells of recognition for Francis. Hadn't Antonio said something a few weeks ago about a new girlfriend? Francis hadn't been paying attention at the time, too wrapped up in his own concerns. But now that he looked again, this young woman did seem to be Antonio's type, cheerful and bright with a pretty smile and canny eyes. "Are you Antonio's girlfriend?" 

She nodded and grinned, stepping closer to offer her hand. "That'd be me. Belle de Vries, at your service." 

"Ah," Francis took her hand, feeling suddenly stifled and awkward for no reason that he could define. He'd never had trouble charming a lady, or at least socializing acceptably. He was grieving, not an awkward teenager at his first dance. "I'm Francis Bonnefoy. Antonio and I went to university together." 

"Oh yes that's right, he's mentioned you. I'm glad to finally meet you! He never said you were married, though." 

Belle's smile was innocent and unassuming, and Francis glanced down in confusion to see that he'd given her his left hand, silver band still gleaming on the fourth finger. For a moment his gut twisted painfully, and then it seemed to collapse in on itself, into a dull ache at the pit of his stomach that threatened to bring his dinner back up. How could he even begin to explain? Belle was a stranger, she had no rights to his personal life. And yet he was the one still wearing the ring. It wasn't Belle's fault she had asked, there was no way for her to know. 

A small thought crept into his mind, slipping low under the barriers, whispering to him as he stood in frozen surprise. A small thought that reminded him he _wasn't married_ , hadn't made it to the wedding, and did he expect to wear the ring for the rest of his life, smiling a dead smile every time someone thoughtlessly inquired after his wife? 

He was suddenly very aware of the ring's weight, how cold it felt against his heated skin. Belle was still looking at him, and he drew in a breath, still not at all sure of what he would say. 

The door behind them opened, and Francis dropped Belle's hand as though he'd been burned. He turned to see Antonio peering in at them, at first quizzically and then in delight. 

"There you are, Belle," Antonio stepped in, crossed over to take Belle's hand, beaming at Francis. "And you met Francis too! Francis, we were just going to get a bite to eat, would you like to come with us?" 

Francis hesitated, and then realized something strange. He was hesitating because he didn't want to intrude if the dinner they had planned was a date. That was a normal, healthy reason to hesitate. Despite his stomach still feeling a little like he'd swallowed an English scone, it didn't hurt as much as he'd expected it to to see Antonio and Belle making sappy faces at each other. He was happy that Antonio had apparently found someone who could tolerate his occasional bouts of air-headed stupidity (and Antonio wasn't allowed to deny those to Francis anymore, not after that night in Amsterdam during spring break their third year). Belle looked like a lovely woman, and he wished them the best. 

It ached, to see them so happy together. It ached, but it didn't _hurt_. 

Belle smiled warmly at him. "Yes, come with us, I'd love to hear all the juicy stories about Tony in university." 

Antonio turned red, and Francis went to dinner with them. 

That night when he got home, flush with laughter and wine and stumbling around in the dark to try and avoid having to look at reminders of Jeanne (he'd redecorated twice, but it still seemed like her fingerprints were everywhere), he wiggled the ring off his finger and dropped it into the top drawer of his desk. 

(He got up in the middle of the night after tossing and turning, took the ring back out, and strung it on a chain around his neck.) 

~*~

Somehow, he got into the habit of telling the angel about his day, like a cross between a journal and the confessional he'd been avoiding. Even he could recognize it as therapeutic, to be able to talk without being interrupted, cry without being judged. Not that he always talked about Jeanne. He did, a lot, but sometimes he talked about high school with Madeline, university with Antonio, shared naughty secrets about Gilbert that he'd never tell another living soul. 

After a few months, he tracked down Gilbert while the priest was in his office writing notes for Sunday's mass. Francis leaned in the doorway and watched him for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Hey Gil?" 

Gilbert glanced up, then capped his pen and gave Francis an attentive look. "What's up?" 

Francis cracked a smile, stepping in to take a seat. "You know, I still wonder how you survived seminary. Or rather, how seminary survived you." 

Gilbert grinned. "I'm just so awesome, they had to ordain me," he paused, and Francis watched his eyes drift toward the ceiling. "...With the Father's help and blessing." 

Francis coughed to hide an amused snort. "Of course." 

"So what can I do for you, Fran?" Gilbert leaned back in his seat, and while he didn't put his feet up on his desk, Francis could tell he wanted to. 

"Well," Francis paused, then decided to just get it out into the open. "I think I may be losing my mind." 

"Pretty calm for a crazy guy," Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Do I need to get my demon-smiting sword?" 

"You don't have a-" Francis took a good look at the priest's face. "...Nevermind." 

Gilbert snickered, then sobered. "Okay Fran, why do you think you're losing your mind?" 

"I..." Francis hesitated a moment longer, then took a deep breath, reminded himself that Gilbert had known him for years and surely heard much stranger things than this. "I'm seeing things, I think." 

"Seeing things," Gilbert's brow furrowed a little, fingers tapping against the edge of his desk. "Fran, so you want me to call a doctor for you? We have several who are members of the congregation-" 

"No!" Francis didn't need someone to dismiss the things he was seeing as grief-induced. He was sure it was more than that. 

He was sure it was real. 

"Gil, I came to you because... I only see things here, in the church. I think it might be something..." he stopped just short of saying 'divine', but Gilbert sat up straighter anyway. 

"Tell me everything," he said, more intense than Francis could remember seeing him for a long time. "What sorts of things do you see?" 

"Actually..." Francis tried to remember the speech he'd prepared when he'd convinced himself to come talk to Gilbert. "It's just one thing, really. The angel statue up in the side chapel, it changes. His expression changes. I've been... talking to him quite a lot, I suppose, and to me it looks like he reacts to what I say. He doesn't move, but his face definitely changes." 

Gilbert gave him a long and thoughtful look, which was a lot better than the out-right laughter Francis had been half-expecting. "The little statue that's up on the pedestal, you mean?" When Francis nodded, he looked even more thoughtful. "...I don't think you're losing your mind, Fran. But I'm not sure this can be classified as a miracle or anything either. Sometimes, when we've suffered a great loss, God finds a way to give us a little comfort. I can't pretend to understand or explain it, I'm just a lowly priest. But if you say that what you're seeing is real, then I believe you." 

"But what should I do?" 

"Do?" Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "Do whatever you want. If it frightens or disturbs you, I can have the statue moved. Or you can continue to talk to it as much as you want. Whatever gives you comfort." He paused, then gave a wide, shit-eating grin so unholy that Francis wondered how he managed not to burst into flame. "Just do me a favour and don't blink." 

Francis rolled his eyes, left him to his notes, and went to talk to the angel. 

~*~

"What're you writing?" 

Francis looked up and smiled at Madeline as she leaned over his shoulder, eyes bright and curious behind her glasses. The end of her blue and white striped scarf slipped over her shoulder, scattering a few drops of melting snow across Francis' sleeve, but he didn't particularly mind. He leaned up enough to kiss his cousin's cheek, then gestured for her to sit down in the chair across from him. She sat, and was careful not to drip any snow onto his notebook as she peeled off her scarf and mittens, for which he was grateful. 

Outside, the snow was coming down heavier, and Francis made a mental note to offer to let Madeline stay at his place tonight if the storm looked like it was going to be bad. People were hurrying back and forth, dodging falling snowflakes and waves of slush from passing cabs, but inside the coffee shop it was warm and cheerful. It was a small place, but owned by a local couple and Francis wanted to support them, just like they'd always supported the bakery. Besides, the atmosphere was wonderfully intimate, and the coffee was fresher and better than what you could find at Starbucks. The barista on duty knew him by sight if not by name, and didn't seem to mind that he came and set up camp in the corner most afternoons. Sometimes he brought a book to read, sometimes he just sat and watched the people outside and the customers coming in. Lately he'd spent most of his time scribbling in the notebook that Madeline was inquiring about. 

He held it up with a sheepish smile, and Madeline's eyebrows went up. "'Keep Calm and Have a Cupcake'?" 

"It was a present from Feli," Francis chuckled, setting it down again and capping his pen. 

"That does explain the bright pink cover, yes." 

Francis smiled, remembering Feliciano's earnest expression when he gave Francis the journal, along with a book on wines and one surprisingly informative one about crafting the perfect meatball. _'I just want you to smile again, Francis'_ , he'd said, and Francis had gotten the impression that these were two of Feliciano's personal favourite books, and he'd picked up the journal on a whim or in an attempt to summon that smile. It was a very Feliciano gesture, and Francis loved him all the more for it. 

"I didn't want it to go to waste," he explained to Madeline. "I'm using it to write down recipe ideas." 

"Recipes?" She looked up at him, intrigued. "Do you mind if I take a look?" 

Francis shook his head, spinning the notebook around so that she could look at it. "Would you like something to drink?" 

"In a minute," Madeline flipped through the pages, packed with Francis' neat, tiny script, doodles of snakes and spider webs and curling leafy vines crawling along the edges of the pages, something to keep his hands busy while he worked out spices and seasonings and ratios in his head. "Fran, these aren't just cupcakes." 

She sounded surprised, and Francis felt his cheeks go a little hot in self-consciousness. "I know how to cook more than just cupcakes," he defended himself, and glanced at what page she was on. The salmon dish that he still hadn't quite got the seasonings worked out on. "And I can't... cupcakes, any baked goods, now..." Madeline reached out and put her hand over his, expression sliding into a look of understanding, and Francis let what he'd been saying trail off with a sad smile. After a moment he turned his hand, grasped hers and gave it a gentle, thankful squeeze. "Actually, Maddie, I wanted to talk to you about that." 

She blinked, sliding the notebook back over to him and giving him a quizzical look. "About cupcakes?" 

His smile widened, became more natural. "Yes, actually. I've been thinking that I've confined myself too long. I've applied to be an instructor at one of the local culinary schools. There's a three month trial period, and after that, if they think I'm good enough..." Francis had been a sous chef straight out of school for several years before he and Jeanne took over the bakery. He'd enjoyed it, and now that the bakery was closed to him, he was actually beginning to look forward to going back to a proper kitchen. 

"Francis, that's wonderful!" She beamed at him, giving his hand another squeeze. After a moment, however, her smile faded. "But then, will the bakery...?" 

Francis fought to keep from smiling. "Actually, I've got someone in mind to take it over, it won't be going anywhere." 

Madeline relaxed a little. "Well, that's a relief. I'd hate to be out of a job just before Christmas." 

"Mm," Francis took a sip of his coffee. "I'll still be the owner, but only on paper. I just can't work there anymore, not like I used to." 

"Fran, it's okay," Madeline's voice was gentle, reassuring. It was one of the things Francis loved most about her, that she could be so kind and caring when the need arose. But then, he'd also seen her jump over the bakery counter to tackle someone who attempted to shoplift once, swearing like a French-Canadian sailor. "I'm sure whoever you've chosen to take over will love the bakery just as much as you and Jeanne." 

"I know she does," Francis paused long enough to savour Madeline's look of confusion. "Since she's you." 

" _What?!_ " It was probably a good thing that Madeline hadn't gotten a drink yet, because she would have dropped it at that moment. She stared at Francis, eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. She made a sound that came out more like a squeak, and swallowed before trying again. "Francis, what?" 

He smiled at her warmly. "You love the bakery as much as Jeanne and I ever did." His throat ached a little at speaking his fiancee's name, but didn't close. He reached up to press his fingers against his ring, feeling the coolness of it against his breastbone where it hung under his shirt. But after that brief reassurance, he forced himself to lower his hand, to not worry at the ring. It got a little easier each time. He focused on Madeline instead, on the here and now and the future, on how shocked she looked. "And besides, you've been running it for the past several months. You're more than competent, and I can't think of anyone else who would be better." 

"I-" she turned bright red at the praise, ducking her chin to half hide in the folds of her scarf. "...Thank you. I'll do my best to live up to you." 

"It comes with a pay raise, of course," Francis was enjoying watching her flustered more than he probably should be. "And if you need to hire someone besides just yourself and Feliciano and Michelle, just let me know. Otherwise, I shall leave it up to you." 

"Thank you," Madeline said again, still blushing, her eyes warm and beautiful. Idly, Francis thought that her boyfriend was a very lucky man. "I promise you won't regret it." 

Francis grinned, reaching across the table to ruffle her hair, making her flail in despair. "Maddie, I could never be disappointed in you. You're family, and besides, I've never known you to fail in something without giving it everything you have. I'm going to buy you that drink now, we can discuss details over dinner. My treat." 

The smile she gave him was so warm and bright, that for a moment it washed away the ache Jeanne had left. 

~*~

In the middle of spring, about six months after Jeanne's death, Francis Bonnefoy had an epiphany. 

It was Monday morning, and he was sitting at the kitchen counter eating breakfast, listening to the rain pattering against the windows. Rather than making him feel gloomy, the rain strangely invigorated him, the _tap-tap-tap_ of the droplets making him feel restless and want to move. His foot was twitching where it was hooked around the leg of his stool, and he was staring at the wall, idly considering retiling the back splash behind the stove when the epiphany snuck up and flicked him in the back of the head. 

"I could move." 

He said it aloud, because saying it made it more real, more than just an idle thought. Also because he'd been talking to himself all winter, though he preferred to pretend his scruffy-haired guardian angel was there; it made him feel a little less crazy and a little less lonely. He sat up straighter, turning to look over the apartment, really seeing it for the first time in months. 

He and Jeanne had bought it together, slept in the bedroom and cooked in this kitchen side by side, cuddled together after a long day in the over-sized bath tub that had been one of the selling points. And Francis had stayed because at times he could still catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, though those times were fewer now, after so many months. There were still times as he sat alone that he could almost imagine she was away visiting her family, and that she'd be home tomorrow or next Friday. Sometimes the apartment upstairs would have their shower running, and it would startle Francis awake in the early morning, absolutely convinced that Jeanne was taking a shower in their bathroom. 

But this apartment was too big for one person, even for one person and a ghost, or one person and an angel. 

He'd been clinging to this place because it let him pretend that Jeanne wasn't really dead, but now it ached instead of stabbed, and he knew somewhere in his heart that living here was holding him back. Better to pass the apartment on to some other couple or young family who could make their own memories here, better that Francis didn't stay to let the memories he had of Jeanne become stale. That was the last thing he wanted, and he realized now that he didn't have to stay here to preserve the memories that lived in his heart and mind, replayed like old video tapes going soft and sepia at the edges, softening but not fading with time. 

He took a slow, deep breath, eggs forgotten. He stared at the window, watched the rain, tried to keep from imagining Jeanne standing behind him and ended up with the angel instead, the two of them blurring a bit and then standing side by side, exchanging amused smiles over Francis' head. 

"I'm going to move."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Michelle is Seychelles.
> 
> And Madeline stole her scarf from her boyfriend. ^_~


End file.
